


as flies to wanton boys

by bbwrites



Category: Lord of the Flies - William Golding
Genre: Character Study, Family Issues, Homecoming, Implied/Referenced Character Death, POV Second Person, Post-Canon, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Returning Home, Roman Catholicism, Survival, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-16
Updated: 2019-02-16
Packaged: 2019-10-29 11:56:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17807564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bbwrites/pseuds/bbwrites
Summary: You are nothing anymore, without the paint. They scrub you clean and wash your hair and you feel a dull sadness threatening to rip your chest open.(Jack, after)





	as flies to wanton boys

 

> _"As flies to wanton boys are we to the gods. They kill us for their sport."_
> 
> William Shakespeare, **King Lear**
> 
>  

When the rescue boat pulls into port, your breath catches. Some feeling that you can't place (anymore. You're positive that you've felt this before. But that was Before. This is After- all that matters now is survival.) bubbles up in your throat and a terrible lump forms, threatening to choke you.

You haven't spoken or listened since you set foot on the boat. You have been alone within yourself. You have gone silent and abstained from looking in mirrors. This is penance- your priest will be proud to hear. You are nothing anymore, without the paint. They scrub you clean and wash your hair and you feel a dull sadness threatening to rip your chest open. 

You turn to the boy beside you; it takes a moment to form the words,"How- how long have we been gone? What year is it?"

It could be 1964 for all you know- the civilisation that the boat docks into is only vaguely familiar: a mirage in a faraway desert, tricking you into thinking that this place was once your home. Eons could have passed and you would be none the wiser. 

Ralph looks at you, face bruised and scarred, his gaze is withering; he scowls. You deserve this treatment, you realise. The realisation isn't jolting or life altering, it washes over you with a cool acceptance. It doesn't faze you, not even for a moment.

(Later, this moment, along with many others, will come haunt you in the blue-black space between consciousness and sleep. You are none the wiser to this in the moment- why would you be? In this moment you are still _Chief_ , standing tall, forged from fire and blood.)

He turns away from you, disgusted. Your question still hangs terribly in the air, heavy with things said and unsaid. After a long moment, Ralph says, "It's nineteen forty one." 

He does not look at you. In fact, he will never fully look at you again. You'll come to realise you are grateful for this, somewhere in the future. Now, only a small pang of hatred registers. It extinguishes weakly after a moment. You are too tired to feel much at all, these days. 

When you disembark, your mother cries and smothers you in her arms. Your father places a comforting hand on your shoulder. He will never admit it, you will never force him to admit it, but his eyes are wet. That truth goes unacknowledged but hangs heavy between the three of you. Something has altered within your family. It can never be repaired. That doesn't really matter- you will not try to fix this crack. You don't care enough (you never cared enough).

You cannot form the words you need to say to your parents, your lungs are smoke scarred and you fear you've lost all gentleness. Nothing you try to say sounds right, so after a long while you give up on trying to say anything. Somewhere deep within your brain an idea begins to form: _you will never sing again_. You push it away, you don't have the energy to deal with it. 

They take you back to a hotel, your mother promises you'll be home soon. _Home_. What a strange word, a foreign concept. You don't have a home anymore, it feels like. Maybe you never even had one before the Island. And what is the Island now? Nothing, burned to a crisp all alone in the Atlantic. A sharp wave of sadness washes over you when you finally understand that you will never go back to the Island. You're trapped, England isn't your home anymore. The house you have lived in all of your life, when you return, is not your home. It is just a place you will inhabit. 

That night, you look into a mirror for the first time: your hair is clean and short, your face is free from dirt and paint. Your eyes are sunken and your cheekbones are hollow. You don't recognize yourself. You look a million years old. You look like a small child. You look like nothing. 

No one has said anything about the three dead children or the bruises and scars or anything that happened on the Island. You think you are thankful for that. It's war time, you and the others are miracles, examples of the great resilience of the English. The government must be keeping things quiet for the people's morale. This quiet is not for you. You should not be thankful.

When you finally arrive home, you go to a special mass to celebrate your return. You look at the other boys, faces sunken and solemn. None of you speak. The mass does not register.

( _Holy water_ , you think, _I was rebaptised on the Island, in the sea. It burned my eyes and the cuts on my body. I was invincible once._ )

It is true: you will never sing again. You don't care anymore. You have so many more talents, why limit yourself to one. 

Your mother talks about moving permanently to your country home, after the war ends. She won't say why, but you know. It's a ploy to get you away from all the choir boys. You don't speak to them anymore. You don't keep in contact with any of the others scattered across England. Why would you? It doesn't matter anymore. Your mother says it's for the best. You agree. 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> find me on tumblr @natashailyinichna


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